Death of the Hiker
There is a moment—an imperceptibly fast one—when a human’s relationship to the natural world changes. For some, it is the slipping of a rock underfoot, a flash of lightning, the loss of light, a rustle right behind one’s back, or the sudden realization that they do not actually know how to read a map.
There is nature as a cathedral of the earth, an exquisite, never-ending wonder that transcends time and death and reminds its viewers that they are part of something larger and perfect.
Or there is a loved one at the bottom of a ravine, a piece of root skewering their body like a hors d’oeuvre. There are final breaths and desperate sounds of waning life that no one will ever hear.
On a bus right after sunset in Slovenia, 45 minutes outside of Ljubljana. Anxious. My bus was fifty minutes late so I will miss the last bus to Bohinj. Cannot do much now to figure that out. Five days on my own, completely in the woods. I will let myself get sentimental and cinematic. I will forcefully reflect and be forcefully absent of thought. I will try not to spiral.
A few years ago, in search of the sort of clean slate that only nature can offer, I set out on a five-day solo hike up Mount Triglav in Slovenia. While planning a European trip with my then-partner, I was left with free time at the end of the month (they were attending a conservative wedding in Austria that my gay ass was not invited to). To kill time in Europe is a gift, and I had always fantasized about hiking in the Alps. I wanted that après-ski, nature-girl fantasy. We’re talking crisp air, vibrant wildflowers, and long, strenuous days that end in nights filled with beer, moonlight, and wool socks.
